Thorkeld put his oar in the water, and the swaying craft righted. "Glory to God," said Artân. "There is no glory to your god in this," said Thorkeld scornfully. "Did you not hear what Necta sang? He sang to the woman in there that drags men into the caves, and throws their bones on the next tide. He put an incantation upon her, and she shrank, and the boat slid away from the rocks." "That is a true thing," thought Artân. He wondered if it was because he had not sung his hymn in the holy Latin. When the last flame died out of the west, and the stars came like sheep gathering at the call of the shepherd, Artân remembered that he had not said his prayers and sang the vesper hymn. He lay back and listened. There were no bells calling across the water. He looked into the depths. It was Manann's kingdom, and he had never heard that God was there; but he looked. Then he stared into the dark-blue star-strewn sky. Suddenly he touched Thorkeld. "Tell me," he said, "how far north has the Cross of Christ come?" "By the sea way it has not come here yet. Murdoch the Freckled came with it this way, but he was pulled into the sea, and he died." "Who pulled him into the sea?" Thorkeld stared into the running wave. He had no words. Artân lay still for a long while. "It will go ill with me," he thought, "if Mary cannot see me so far away from Iona, and if God will not listen to me. Colum should have known that, and given me a holy leaf with the fair branching letters on it, and the Latin words that are the words of God." Then he spoke to the man who had sung. "Do you know of Mary, and God, and the Son, and the Spirit?" "You have too many Gods, Culdee," answered the Pict sullenly: "for of these one is your god's son, and the other is the woman his mother, and the third is the ghost of an ancestor." Artân frowned. "The curse of the God of Peace upon you for that," he said angrily; "do you know that you have hell for your dwelling-place if you speak evil of God the Father, and the Son, and the Mother of God?" "How long have they been in Iona, White-Robe?" The man spoke scornfully. Artân knew they had not been there many years. He had no words. "My father worshipped the Sun on the Holy Isle before ever your great Druid that is called Colum crossed the Moyle. Were your three gods in the coracle with Colum? They were not on the Holy Isle when he came." "They were coming there," answered Artân confusedly. "It is a long, long way from--from--from the place they were sailing from." Necta listened sullenly. "Let them stay on Iona," he said: "gods though they be, it would fare ill with them if they came upon the Woman with the Net." Then he turned on his side, and lay by the man Darach, who was staring at the moon and muttering words that neither Artân nor Thorkeld knew.